


Tryst

by Fierceawakening



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Bloodplay, Dubious Consent, Gore, M/M, Sticky Sexual Interfacing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-13
Updated: 2015-04-13
Packaged: 2018-03-22 15:32:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3734077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fierceawakening/pseuds/Fierceawakening
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Megatron and Starscream have incredibly violent gory angry sex.</p><p>That's pretty much it. Yep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tryst

Starscream shrieked.

His knees buckled beneath him and he fell to the floor hard. The floor was slick with energon – some of it his own. But that did nothing to blunt the impact shivering through his shins.

Claws bit deep into his wings, cutting new wounds into already torn plating. Hands wrenched and twisted the thin metal. He felt it dent, a bright flare of pain that scorched his sensornet and sent static flickering across his vision.

He wondered how far Megatron had twisted it, the curiosity bitter, corrosive acid in his mind. He pushed himself up to his hands and knees. His claws, thinner and lighter than his tormentors, scrabbled against the energon-stained floor. Sparks flew where their tips bit into the metal.

That, at least, was a triumph. He let out a laugh, high and reedy and laced with static. The gears in his throat crunched together, wrenched out of their proper alignment, and that hurt too. But beside the pain in his wings, that was nothing.

And his claws were still sharp, even after all of this. He looked down at the spilled energon below him, forced his optics open wide to take in the sight. Not all of it was his.

His spike was still exposed, the cover that normally hid it battered and dented. The cover hung askew from its mounts, a mess of crumpled scrap.

But his spike itself rose high and proud. Its biolights blinked, and a drop of transfluid gleamed at its tip.

“I can still make you bleed too, Lord Megatron,” he hissed. A fierce pleasure curled through him. Heat pooled in his interface equipment and made his spike strain even harder.

But he couldn’t be sure, hearing his own ruined voice, if the mech behind him could hear him.

Even if Megatron hadn’t heard him, though, he had other ways to show his defiance. He couldn’t have tucked his spike away even if he’d wanted to – not with its cover crushed to scrap. But Megatron would want his valve more.

And that, Starscream had kept closed. Lubricant leaked from the seams, smeared his thighs with silver iridescence. But the prize remained hidden, tucked away behind a thin shield of metal. Megatron would know why.

He rocked his hips and smirked. His optics gleamed, bright fiery lights set into dirt-smeared faceplates. Megatron would have to notice that.

He heard a ragged vent of air. The hands wrapped around his wings squeezed tight, so tight. He felt the metal give again, crumpling under the force. Static fuzzed in his vision again and the fuel in his tank roiled.

But his torment was short-lived. The grip around his wings loosened and the pricking claws retreated. Starscream sighed, a shaky, broken sound, and shifted his wings as carefully as he could.

Then sensation returned. The sensors Megatron’s tight grasp had constricted flared to new life. Agony flooded them, speeding through his sensornet like lightning or wild, spreading flame.

Beyond reason, Starscream bucked his hips again.

The sharp prick of a claw stopped him. It pressed against the cover of his valve, a warning and a promise.

“Still closed, Starscream?” Megatron rasped, his voice rich with amusement. But Starscream could hear exhaustion in it, clicks and skips and bursts of static.

That told him he’d done more to Megatron than the big mech wanted to confess. He licked his lip plates, tasted his own energon where Megatron’s fangs had drawn it, and didn’t answer.

The claw traced the seam of Starscream’s valve. He could feel Megatron’s fingertip there, smeared with his lubricant. And maybe with energon. He’d lost track.

The movement – gentle, compared to everything else – flooded Starscream’s sensors with heat. His pelvic plating burned. He closed his mouth, gritted his teeth, fought the instinct screaming inside him to  _open, open_ , to feel Megatron’s claw sink into him, fill him and pierce him –

“Is this a protest, or a plea?” Megatron asked. His hand stilled.

Starscream shot him a look over his shoulder.

And peered at his own wings, glowing pink with his own spilled energon. Their once-white surface shone silver, wrenched forcefully enough to expose the metal under the paint. Like the cover of his spike, they hung half-twisted from their joints in his back, ruined hints of what wings might once have been.

“Open,” Megatron snarled.

Starscream shuddered, weighing the consequences of defiance. His spike twitched, and transfluid dripped down from it onto the energon-stained floor, a puddle of bright silver, a tiny drop of treasure amid filth.

He slid his cover aside, as slow as he could stand.

For a moment he felt cold, cold and exposed and empty. He shivered again, unsure if he could bear it.

Then he felt the blunt, thick shape of Megatron’s spike, hot with the warmth of Megatron’s systems, pressed to the entrance of his valve. His claws scratched at the floor again, harsh and eager.

Megatron cycled an intake of air, ragged as the sounds from Starscream’s ruined vocalizer had been.

Then he reared back and battered his way in.

Starscream howled as it invaded him. His valve had always been small, small and tight and dainty. Megatron’s spike ripped through him, forcing him open before the walls of his valve had time to shift to better admit him.

Something crumpled like his wings had, a delicate transformation mechanism twisted and destroyed by the thing driving into him.

He howled a welcome and shoved himself back on it. When his vision faded again, he welcomed it.

Megatron drew back, the movement searing the sensors in the walls of his valve to unbearable life. His frame shook, weak with exhaustion and anticipation, and Megatron drove in again, fast and deep and brutal.

He forced his hips further apart, willed himself to open. Broken things shifted inside him, irising open from the power of his will alone. Megatron moved inside him, filling him, the friction turning the pain he felt to a fiery, golden heat.

The movements quickened, easier now. The massive spike forced a gush of fluid out of him, and he wondered with another quiet, fey laugh how much of it was his lubricant and how much was his energon, drawn from wounds left deep inside him.

“More –” he hissed, the gears in his shattered throat grinding together.

Claws tightened around his hips, drew energon where their tips dug into his back. He licked his lips again and writhed.

Megatron’s cooling fans roared. The hands wrapped tight around him trembled.

Megatron moved back again, the spike easing its way out of him again. No doubt it would snag on the dented walls of his valve. Megatron growled in something that sounded like need and pain both.

He snickered, cruel glee flaring through his systems.

But now he was empty, the spike that had cloven him poised just at his entrance. He hissed and spat at the loss. He wanted this, needed this, and if Megatron left him now he’d have nothing but torment left, torment and a thirst he could never satisfy on his own. He reached down to wrap a clawed hand around his own spike and spat a curse.

Megatron laughed once, a low, contempt-filled sound as harsh as his own had been.

Then he roared and plunged in again, and Starscream forgot everything.

His sensors flared, lit with pain or friction or sensation or both. A gilded heat tore through his systems, fierce and bright enough to melt him there where he crouched, torn by sundering hands, split asunder by the spike inside him.

He knew only heat – the heat of his spark, fierce and greedy and insistent, craving his own dissolution. The heat of his spike gripped tight in a fist he forgot when he’d began to move. And the flame inside him, transmuting pain to pleasure and pleasure to something else entirely.

Megatron moved inside him, rough and fast, and he shuddered, sure his shattered frame would burst apart.

His spike twitched in his hand. His valve clenched around its invader. Or maybe that was Megatron’s spike inside him, frozen and trembling for a moment before it flooded him.

Then the white heat of overload claimed him, blanking his vision in a burst of fiery light.


End file.
